


Sunshine

by iamtheladyfreak (dragonet)



Series: English AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras is really really smart, Enjolras's uncle is married to Grantaire's adoptive mother, Enjolras's uncle owns a hotel, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Les Amis - the Teenage Years, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Smoking, Teenage Rebellion, lots of smoking, so i guess they're almost cousins idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonet/pseuds/iamtheladyfreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hotel, a hot summer, two boys who don't fit anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seaview

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Huh. As always, I'm not sure what this is. I'd appreciate feedback, I haven't proof-read much it yet. Only like, sixteen times. So not enough.
> 
> This is tentatively set sometime in the Nineties or something.

 

There’s a house in Devon, standing alone on the precipitous edge of a cliff. Mere feet from the end of the garden the land drops away to the cove so far below; the holidaymakers on the sand may as well be ants on a swathe of gold.

Enjolras does not like heights. He shudders and turns his back on the garden (wealthy apple tree, overgrown nasturtium borders, daisies on the lawn) to follow his aunt back inside. The house lours overhead. There would be something nostalgic about its devastated façade, except Enjolras hates this place.

He’s sleeping at the very top of the building under the eaves. He is convinced Anya has done this on purpose. She knows he dislikes high places and the tall old structure even seems to sway in strong winds, creaking and groaning until Enjolras is certain they are all going to take off and end up in Oz. Or somewhere like Birmingham, knowing his luck.

He’s not related to Anya, she married his uncle not long ago. Marc is very decent, Enjolras gets along with him, but unfortunately also very busy. Since the wedding Anya and Marc have been hard at work renovating the house, which is actually ‘Seaview’, a hotel spawning most of the ants on the golden sands. Enjolras thinks it terribly unoriginal.

Sitting alone in his garret room, he tries to see a redeeming feature to the summer. Gloomily, he has to conclude there isn’t one.

He knows Anya has a son around the same age as him, but he’s never met him; the wedding coincided with a psychology mock and he didn’t go. He wasn’t introduced to the boy upon arrival and concludes he must be elsewhere.

“Enjolras,” Anya says at breakfast the next day. He’s not allowed to eat with the guests, he has to breakfast with his aunt and uncle in the kitchen. “What are you going to do today?”

He shrugs.

“Well then, I wonder if you’d be a sweetie and mind the front desk for a couple of hours? I’ve got to pop into town.”

It’s going to be like that, then.

He sits behind the front desk and glares balefully at the rain streaking down the glass-fronted doors. Nothing happens all morning. He’s in a savage mood by lunchtime and sees the whole summer stretching ahead, dull and wet.

Halfway through Enjolras’s lunch of stale salami sandwich, the first stimulating thing happens.

The door bangs open and a tall dark boy with sopping wet hair marches in, trailed by Anya.

“Will you shut up!” he barks. “I’m so sick of you telling me what to do, you don’t know shit, you didn’t even care until this fucking new husband-”

“That’s enough!” Anya shrills. “How dare you swear at me-”

“How dare you abandon me!” he yells in her face. “How dare you leave me with fucking Steve while you fucked off to St Tropez and got a tan and fucked on the beach, how dare you take me away from him! How dare you think you can tell me what to do after all the shit you’ve pulled! You make me sick, you fucking make me sick!”

He turns on his heel and stomps upstairs. Anya drips on the parquet floor and stares at the wall. Enjolras, carefully separating some salami from his bread, raises an eyebrow at her.

“Mop that up,” she snaps at him and goes off steaming into the kitchen, where he hears her start on the hapless lunch chef.

Enjolras leaves the water and derives vicious satisfaction from watching several guests skid in it. He also takes several pound coins from the register and hides all Anya’s pens.

He doesn’t get dinner because he was reading in his room and missed the bell – he’s determined to finish War and Peace by the time term starts. Anya plonks a supper of pineapple cubes and water crackers in front of him as she cleans the kitchen, swiping with the cloth as though she’d like to be erasing something other than dirt. Every so often she mutters under her breath.

“Ungrateful little-”

Enjolras politely applies himself to his pineapple and crackers and listens in with great enjoyment. She accidentally pours bleach on the gas rings and swears at the top of her voice.

“What’s up, babe?” Uncle Marc asks wearily, kicking the door shut with his foot. Anya’s hand jumps to her mouth.

“Oh, nothing, darling,” she says, going to him for a frankly disgusting kiss. “Just the kid, you know.”

“He’s acting up again?” Marc says, sitting down opposite Enjolras. “Hi, E. Good day?” Enjolras nods but Marc’s attention is already back on Anya as she sets a plate of three perfect sandwiches in front of him. Enjolras frowns at it and Anya frowns at him as though daring him to comment.

“He’s just being a little s – little bugger,” she says. “Says I shouldn’t have left him with Steve, says it’s too late and he doesn’t want to be here – you know I had to pick him up from the police station? They found him _passed out drunk,_ asleep in the Jubilee flowerbeds this morning!”

“He needs a talking-to,” Marc says heavily, starting in on his fish paste sandwich.

“Goodnight,” Enjolras announces.

“Oh, night E,” Marc says. Anya merely grunts.

The wind’s up and whistles through all the cracks in the old house as Enjolras makes his way upstairs. He tries not to feel afraid of the dark stairwell, the squeaky staircase and the gale howling like a dog in pain. It doesn’t altogether work. He sleeps with the duvet over his head.

The next day finds sunlight streaming through the attic window and onto Enjolras’s pillow. He’s too hot. He throws the duvet aside and just then hears an almighty bang, as though someone’s slammed the door to his room. He sits bolt upright, shedding pillows everywhere, but no one’s there.

It’s very early. He can hear Anya in the dining room talking to a customer, so he sneaks into the kitchen and purloins a bacon sandwich. Then he runs before Anya can corner him and talk him into another day on the desk.

The air is fresh and cool but with the promise of heat. Enjolras feels almost optimistic as he strolls along the cliff path, munching his sandwich. He reflects that Anya actually can cook when she puts her mind to it and it’s a shame she seems to feel her mind is better occupied with colour-matching and curtains. Down below, a motor boat bobs along the glassy sea.

The kiosk on the promenade isn’t open yet so Enjolras sits himself down to wait. He feels agreeably at one with the world for so early in the morning. He stares at his battered shoes and then at the horizon. Then he watches seagulls. Finally he finds himself drawn to the calm surface of the sea, watching each wavelet crest, break, and fold in on itself neatly. The sun edges down the cliffs behind him.

He gets up and walks down to the waves. The tide is going out. There’s no one around.

So he takes off all his clothes and goes for a swim.

When he gets out the kiosk is open and the girl inside stares at him in only his boxers, buying a cup of bitter coffee at half past seven on a Wednesday.

Salt forms a rime on his skin and he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind anything much at all this morning, this new day. He smiles to himself as he navigates the gorse bushes on the opposite cliffs and smiles all morning while he lies in deep grass and watches cirrus clouds evanesce across the brilliant summer sky.

He doesn’t return to Seaview until mid-afternoon. A very disgruntled Anya is on the front desk.

“Where were you?” she squawks. “We were worried!”

Enjolras turns on the bottom steps and gives her a look.  
“I very much doubt that,” he says quietly and continues his ascent.

He takes War and Peace out into the garden with the intent of reading another few chapters before dinner, which he will _not_ miss today. There’s a nice bench in the sun, tucked in a corner of architecture, out of the ever-present sea wind. A hyacinth blooms just behind his shoulder.

“I’m not much for colour,” a rough voice says suddenly, “but for you, I’d buy all the pigments in the world.”

He looks around. There is no one.

“Up here.”

A mossy apple tree grows by the fence. It’s been forced to grow out rather than up by the sea wind. If Enjolras squints, he can make out a lanky form in the cradle of the boughs.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Smoking,” Anya’s son replies. He suddenly appears in a frame of leaves and budding fruit, propping himself up on a branch. He has a rather large nose and slender dark eyes. “Want one?”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“You’re a funny little sod, aren’t you?” the guy says, expertly blowing three smoke rings. The wind whisks them away, rustling the leaves. “What’s your name?”  
“Enjolras.”

“I’ll have to get you to write that down,” the guy laughs. He hops up onto an outermost branch and reclines, crosses his endless legs at the ankle. “So you’re Marc’s nephew.”

Enjolras considers it best to remain silent. Anya’s son yawns out cigarette smoke and stubs the butt out on the tree. Enjolras bites his tongue.

“Why you here then?”

“My parents decided a little time away would do me good,” he says brusquely after a brittle silence. “Why are you here?”

Anya’s son turns his head to the side and gives Enjolras a lazy grin.

“Anya married your uncle and decided it would be a great idea to show him how domesticated and housewife-ly she is.” he snorts with laughter. “That’s not gonna happen. She’s about as domesticated as a boar.”

“Why do you call her Anya?”

“She’s not my real mum,” the kid explains around another cigarette, trying to spark his lighter in the breeze. “Her and Steve adopted me but then they broke up.”

“I see,” Enjolras murmurs. “That undoubtedly justifies your antisocial tendencies.”

The guy looks taken aback but quickly grins, sharply showing all his teeth, like a fox.

“You do talk awful pretty,” he drawls. “You’d better speak down, we’re all yokels around here.” he pauses. “I don’t like people analysing me. Least of all little nerds with books thicker than their dicks.”

Enjolras glances down at War and Peace.

“Well, I suppose this book is in fact thicker than the radius of the average penis,” he concedes in the interests of antagonism. He eyes it thoughtfully. “Probably not _longer_ than my penis, though.”

He looks up just in time to catch the kid’s gaze flicker to the book. Measuring. He bites back a grin and rises.

“Well, it was very nice talking to you. I’ll see you around.”

“See you, sunshine!” floats after him on the light wind.

Oh, this could be fun. This could be such good fun.

 


	2. Trespassing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: In which Grantaire discovers Enjolras and Enjolras is out of his depth.

 

Enjolras wakes up late the next morning. Yawning, he stumbles out of bed to find he’s missed breakfast. Anya flatly refuses to make him anything.

“We’ve just cleaned the kitchen for lunch. Breakfast finishes at nine, I told you that.”

He slumps upstairs gloomily and resigns himself to hunger pangs until lunchtime.

“Nice PJs.”

He nearly leaps out of his skin. Anya’s son sprawls on the window seat of the third-floor landing, surreptitiously smoking.

“Try not to fall downstairs, I’m not sure Anya could spare you five seconds to call an ambulance,” the kid says, staring out to sea. He was chatty yesterday, warm under his bitter words. Today he seems barely interested. Enjolras wonders if he’s driven the kid off already.

“What’s your name?” he asks before he can stop himself. The kid looks surprised.

“Grantaire,” he says. Enjolras laughs. “It’s not funny.”

“It is, actually,” Enjolras says. They glare at each other for a moment before Grantaire huffs and returns his gaze to the window. Enjolras goes up to his room.

There’s a knock on his door. He debates answering it but decides he’s too comfortable.

“What?” he calls.

Grantaire opens the door. “Did you miss breakfast?” he demands.

“Yes,” Enjolras looks pointedly at his book. “I was reading. And I didn’t invite you in.”

“I don’t care,” Grantaire retorts. “Come on. We’ll go down to the beach for breakfast.”

Enjolras frowns at him but gets up anyway. Grantaire jiggles impatiently while he pulls his sneakers on.

“Come on,” he sighs. “The hot waitress finishes at midday, we’re going to miss her if you don’t get a move on.”

“I’m not interested in hot waitresses,” Enjolras says, looking for his wallet.

“Of course you’re not,” Grantaire rolls his eyes as they come out onto the landing. “Hey, one minute, I’ve got to grab my smokes.”

Grantaire opens the door opposite Enjolras’s, which he’d always assumed led to an attic.

“I didn’t know you slept up here too,” Enjolras says.

“Yeah,” Grantaire dives into a pile of dirty clothes and ferrets around. “Anya thinks having family around lowers the tone of the establishment.” He pulls out a packet of Windsor Blue triumphantly. “And, of course, I’m not worth the cost of a room to her. Hey, are you coming or not?”

They wander along the cliff path.

“Smoking ruins your lungs, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Race you to the bottom, Blondie.”

They flop down on the promenade.

“You cheated.”

“I never did.”

“You know the path better than me!”

“Yeah, that’s not cheating, that’s having a better memory.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been informed. Come on.”

The beach café nestles against the cliff on the east side of the beach, still in shadow this early. Enjolras looks at the steps leading up to it and groans.

“Come _on,_ sunshine! I’m starving,” Grantaire grumbles, already halfway up.

“This is – too much to expect – on low blood sugar,” Enjolras pants.

The promised waitress knows she’s hot. Enjolras sees the sunrise mirrored in her beautifully uneven face. Grantaire orders for them both.

“Don’t I get a say?”

“No,” Grantaire stubs his cigarette out – in the ashtray, this time. “You need a bit of feeding up. When’s the last time you had a good meal? Anyway, I come here every day. I know what’s good.”

“I had pineapple and crackers?” Enjolras offers. “And – a bacon sandwich… and that weird rice last night.”

“Anya,” Grantaire mutters. “Typical.”

Silence falls. Enjolras finds it very awkward. Grantaire tips out packets of sugar onto the table and draws random patterns in it with his forefinger. The waitress brings tea for Grantaire and coffee for Enjolras. Grantaire winks at her. Her pink lipstick overlaps her upper lip a tiny bit.

“So… you’re what, nineteen?” Grantaire asks as the waitress puts their breakfasts down. Enjolras stares down at the runny fried egg and nearly forgets to correct him.

“Seventeen,” he says and politely ignores the way Grantaire chokes on his toast. “And you?”

“Twenty next month,” Grantaire says promptly.

“I’m eighteen in October.”

“Good for you.”

They eat in silence for a while. Enjolras’s body suddenly remembers what energy feels like. It’s a heady recollection.

“So you’ve just finished your AS exams, then?” Grantaire enquires as he mops up the last of his baked beans.

“Just finished A levels,” Enjolras replies. “I started a year early.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I was home-educated. Not by my parents, by a tutor. I took all my AS exams privately last year, I’ve just done my A level finals at a Sixth Form college.”

“What did you take?”

“Maths, Psychology, History, Law, and Sociology.”

“Well…” Grantaire leans back perilously far in his chair, balancing on two legs. “I’m not easily impressed, but that… that’s very impressive. What were your grades? Excellent, I’m assuming?”

“Okay, I guess,” Enjolras makes a self-conscious movement. He wishes he felt less embarrassed. “Four As and a B. I didn’t edit my last piece of History coursework.”

“That’s-” Grantaire croaks, clears his throat and tries again. “That’s really good. Er – well done.”  
“Thank you,” Enjolras says composedly, burying his smile in his coffee mug.

Grantaire hangs back to talk to the waitress. He’s grinning when he catches up with Enjolras ambling down the promenade.

“What do you do?” Enjolras asks him. “Are you at university?”

Grantaire gives him a look, lighting yet another cigarette. The sea breeze is gentler today and whispers warmly across their skin.

“Do I look like I go to university?” He doesn’t give Enjolras a chance to reply, possibly because he can see the other boy is thinking about answering seriously. “No. I dropped out of A levels and took the easy way out. A music course.”

“Oh.”

They wander up to the cliff top in silence. The sun is fierce and Enjolras is very soon much too hot. At the path to Seaview, Grantaire grabs Enjolras’s arm to make him stop.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Er – no?”

“Come on, then.”

“Where?”

Enjolras follows him off the path, across rough springy grass shorn close by sheep. The horizon is very close, the land dipping away to meet the shore, and when they reach it Enjolras stops in amazement. He’s never seen this before.

Devon lies before him in a bowl, blue distant hills and crops reaching for miles with tractor trails running up and down. Trees and hedgerows cause a little light aesthetic relief here and there. Away from the sea, there’s no wind and the heat intensifies.

Grantaire hops the old post and rail fence into a field of maize. His dark head disappears into one of the furrows left by the tractor wheels.

Enjolras hesitates. Then he climbs over the fence too and tentatively peers into the dark gap. Furry chartreuse leaves overhang the narrow path. Sunlight only comes down in a few places. The earth is very dry.

“Come on, sunshine,” Grantaire says, appearing out of the green gloom a little way ahead. He’s bent over to avoid leaves hitting him in the face, cigarette dangling from his lip.

“Are we trespassing?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yep.”

Enjolras follows him.

It’s cooler under the maize, only a little. He stares at Grantaire’s back, clad in a grey t-shirt. At the other end of the field, they navigate a barbed wire fence at a gap in the hedge (rather, Grantaire does and has to come back for Enjolras) and Grantaire turns left, leading them along the hedgerow. This field has cows grazing in it a little way off and Enjolras eyes them every so often, keeping close to Grantaire.

Another barbed wire fence guards the borders of a small thicket. Grantaire has to help Enjolras over it again.

The forest floor is depressed and they scramble down steep sides. It’s a universal law that anywhere underneath trees, no matter the time of year, has a layer of desiccated autumn leaves to scuffle through. In summer they’re invariably colourless, crispy, and disintegrating.

At the bottom of the pit a beech tree lies on the earth. Grantaire climbs up into the tangled boughs and slings himself comfortably between three branches. He lights another cigarette and sighs contentedly. Enjolras is getting sick of the smell.

He perches on the trunk, rather out of his element. He wonders if Grantaire wants to talk.

It’s rather lovely in here. Birch leaves screen out most of the sun but dapples peek through and everything is gold or green or silver. There could be nothing else in the world.

He doesn’t realise he’s fallen into a trance, staring up at the trees, until Grantaire speaks.

“Is this better than reading?”

“Probably,” Enjolras admits. “Although reading here would be the preferable situation.”

Grantaire laughs out a cloud of smoke. Enjolras gets a sudden gust of cigarette-smell.

“Why do you smoke so much?” he asks, craning to give Grantaire a disapproving look.

“So I’ll die faster,” Grantaire replies and looks surprised at himself, possibly because the sentence came out sincere.

They trek back to the hotel in silence. Enjolras is blindingly thirsty by the time they arrive and has the misfortune to run into Anya berating the lunch chef in the kitchen. He makes an escape while he can, downing his third litre of water on the stairs and leaving the glass for Anya to find. Grantaire has disappeared somewhere.

He falls asleep on top of his duvet without even opening War and Peace.

Someone shakes him awake. Late evening sunlight slants orange and sticky across the room, silhouetting Grantaire.

“Shh,” he whispers. “Come on.”

Enjolras reflects he’s going to get bored of being yanked out of his life without warning pretty soon. But he follows Grantaire anyway.

He leads them downstairs and out through the patron’s lounge. It’s deserted in the evening sun but the clatter of cutlery and talk comes from the dining room. Grantaire opens the French doors and beckons Enjolras out.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras whispers, apprehensively watching Grantaire clamber over the fence. It takes him very close to the cliff edge.

Grantaire turns and grins at him. “You’ll see,” he says, extending a hand to Enjolras.

And if Enjolras takes it just to feel Grantaire’s smooth brown skin, that’s his business.

 


	3. Daiquiri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: there's a bit of non-con in here. Just so you know.

 

“Please tell me where we’re going. I’m not in the habit of sneaking out.”

“Trust me, anyone could tell that. Stop asking, sunshine. You’ll see soon enough.”

Enjolras’s concern grows when they reach the village and Grantaire halts by a bus stop.

“Are we getting a bus? How are we going to get back?”

“Chill,” Grantaire laughs and grips Enjolras’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine, just trust me.”

Enjolras isn’t sure he’ll ever know Grantaire enough for that.

“Hey, R!” a yellow car screeches to a stop in a nimbus of dust and sits pulsing out bass music. Grantaire laughs and raises his hand, trekking up the tyre marks with Enjolras in tow.

“Ant,” Grantaire says fondly, sticking his head in the passenger window. “How are you, man?”

“I’m good, I’m really good,” the driver says, clasping the proffered hand.  “How are you?”

“Peachy,” Grantaire replies. “This is Enjolras. Room for both of us?”

“Hop in, my man.”

And that is how Enjolras finds himself wedged in the back of a Mini Cooper with five girls, while Grantaire grins at him from the passenger seat and passes a joint around.

“I hate you,” he tells Grantaire.  
“If you can say that and mean it at the end of the night, I’ll believe you,” Grantaire laughs and offers him the joint. Enjolras shakes his head but to the drugs or the comment he’s not sure.

Ant pulls the Mini up outside a tall house in the middle of nowhere, causing one of the girls to fall shrieking into Enjolras’s lap.

Music filters from the walls and Grantaire bops his hand absently on his leg as they follow the others up the path. Screams and laughter can be heard from the garden and three naked people are sunbathing on the roof in the syrupy summer evening.

Enjolras grits his teeth.

Grantaire is holding the gate open for him.

“Coming, sunshine?”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” he scowls.

“Nope,” Grantaire says cheerfully, jiggling to the beat. “If you try to run I’ll just carry you back.”

“I’m not good with people,” Enjolras warns, hesitating.

“That’s okay,” Grantaire says, ushering him through. “I am.”

And sure enough, they round the house to shouts of,

“Grantaire!”

“Hey R, what’s up man?”

“Hi, ‘Taire!”

There’s an actual swimming pool in the back garden. People – mostly, it must be admitted, boys – jump from the flat extension roof into the deep end, whooping and raising white plumes of water. Cans of alcohol float in a net tied neatly to the steps.

It looks like a film set and Enjolras’s worst nightmare all at once, populated by far too many people who are mostly half-dressed.

Grantaire turns from a cluster of youths to grasp him by the shoulder.

“This is Enjolras,” he says and their eyes perform the quick-flick over Enjolras he’s come to dread. He frowns and tries not to blush.

“Hi,” he mutters.

“What’s up,” a few people mutter unenthusiastically.

Enjolras braces himself for the questions but they don’t come. A guy with dreadlocks just picks up his conversation with Grantaire and the others listen in, giggling in all the right places and casting both boys admiring looks.

Enjolras glowers. He hates it when people interrogate him but this snubbing is somehow worse. He wants to leave but he doesn’t know anyone else and Grantaire is blithely unaware of his annoyance.

He mopes off to sit against a wall and glare at everyone. He should have brought a book. He shouldn’t have come at all.

“Hi…”

He looks up. A girl in a pink swimsuit smiles at him. She’s the physical impersonation of a rosebud.

“Hello,” he says.

“I’m Cassie,” she says and he shakes her hand. “Do you want to come and swim with us?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” he says.

“Well, come and meet my friends, anyway!” she pulls him up. “Don’t you have a drink?”

“I don’t like beer,” Enjolras says firmly. He knows from an ill-fated attempt to get him drunk at Sixth Form that he’s better off without beer.

“There’s plenty of other drinks!” Cassie chirps, leading him to a sunny corner by the house. She hasn’t let go of his hand. It’s starting to get uncomfortable.

“This is Enjolras!” she announces to a small group of boys and girls. “He doesn’t like beer but he wants a drink!”

“Right on,” one of the guys says, getting up to shake Enjolras’s hand. “What do you want? We’ve got all sorts – grenadine, gin, white rum, wine…?”

“Er-”

“Start him on a daiquiri!” Cassie calls and the others shout agreement.

“Coming right up,” the guy winks.

Things get a little blurry after his fourth cocktail. He lost track of Grantaire hours ago, the sun has gone in, and everyone is drunk and high.

Enjolras finds himself in the house. Cassie is not around, but the daiquiri guy is, sprawled on the sofa beside him. The noise and laughter of the party pour around him in a comforting buzz. He’s aware of his silly grin but it doesn’t seem important.

The hallway is dark and he’s not sure what he’s doing or how he got there but daiquiri guy is pressing him against the wall and his lips are on Enjolras’s neck and – what? No!

He shoves desperately at the bulk of Daiquiri’s shoulders and scrabbles uselessly across his chest but the guy just groans and shoves his hips up and Enjolras swallows a sob because no, _no._

“What are you guys doing out here?” Cassie opens the door, throwing light on them. “Oh, sorry-” she starts but Enjolras takes advantage of Daiquiri’s distraction and pushes him aside and runs for the stairs, scrambles up them hearing footsteps and his name behind him and bolts into the first room he finds, a bedroom with wooden blinds clattering in the breeze, and he slams the door and turns the key in the lock. He stares blankly at the wall in the semi-darkness.

Eventually, there are voices.

“Grantaire, we’ve been looking for you for ages – you need to get your friend out, man, he’s been in there hours.”

“What? No one told me, bro. What happened?”

“I don’t know, man. Cassie said he was in the hall with Lewis and then he just freaked the fuck out and came running up here. I need him out, bro, that’s my parent’s room.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll get him out, give me some fucking space.”

There’s a dull thunk as Grantaire’s head hits the door and Enjolras hears him mutter,

“-too fucking drunk for this.”

There’s a knock.

“Enjolras? I don’t know what happened but – whatever Lewis said, he probably didn’t mean it, he turns into a huge dick after a couple of hits – won’t you come out?”

“Please?”

A longer pause. Grantaire mutters something.

“Come on, look, I’m sorry I dragged you here, you didn’t wanna come. Come out and we’ll go home right now, I’ll call a taxi.”

Tears roll mutely down Enjolras’s cheeks. He moves involuntarily and can tell Grantaire has heard him by the listening silence.

“Please, sunshine,” Grantaire whispers and Enjolras reaches up with fumbling fingers to unlock the door.

He rolls onto his side when Grantaire crawls in and the second Grantaire puts his hand on Enjolras’s back, he starts sobbing and can’t stop.

“Whoa,” Grantaire says startled. “What’s up? E?”

“Daiquiri,” Enjolras whimpers, trying to uncrumple his face but his bottom lip won’t stop shaking.

“Fuck,” Grantaire mutters and drops his head to the floor. “I’m so fucked right now, oh my God.”

“That guy-” Enjolras sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “He-”

Grantaire goes very still.

“What did Lewis do?”

Enjolras bites the back of his hand to stop himself sobbing again.

“E, what did Lewis do?” Grantaire touches his shoulder, spreads his fingers over the bone.

“He – he – I didn’t want him to,” he’s quite surprised at how wobbly his voice is. “I tried – but he wouldn’t…”

“Fuck,” Grantaire hisses. He turns onto his back and digs his palms into his eyes. “I’ll fucking kill him. Fuck!”

There’s a small silence broken only by Enjolras’s cathartic breathing and Grantaire growling quietly.

“Did he hurt you? Hit you?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras shakes his head. He’s getting cold.

“He just – touched you?”

Enjolras nods.

“And you didn’t want him to?”

An emphatic nod.

“I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“R-” Enjolras mumbles. He’s so tired. The room is spinning slowly around him but his eyes won’t stay open.

“You cold, sunshine?” Grantaire drags a fleece blanket off the bed and pulls it over both of them.

“Don’t go,” Enjolras whispers. He tries to move his hand but only succeeds in twitching his fingers. Grantaire somehow knows what he means and pulls him closer, a line of warmth against Enjolras’s back.

“Go to sleep,” he says into Enjolras’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Enjolras yawns shatteringly and falls asleep.

The next morning he wakes up aching and grouchy. Grantaire groans and tightens his hold on Enjolras’s ribs, ducking his head under the blanket to escape the light.

“No,” he mutters. “More sleep.”

“Ah, fuck,” Enjolras moans, clutching his head. “You – you’re such a bastard. You talked me into this fucking shit. Ugh. I feel like shit.”  
“Language,” Grantaire says, muffled.  
“Take me home, you dick,” Enjolras says and punches the blanket.

“Ouch,” it says and Grantaire emerges, wild-haired, blinking in the morning sun. “I hate you,” he says conversationally.

“Trust me, nowhere near as much as I hate you,” Enjolras glares to show he means it. Grantaire looks contrite.

They rescue Grantaire’s hoodie from underneath a sleeping girl and his shoes from the roof. As they’re tiptoeing through sleeping bodies in the hall, Grantaire stops and looks into the living room. Enjolras turns back.

“What?” he whispers, as loud as he dares. Daiquiri is here somewhere and he really doesn’t want to deal with that.

“Lewis,” Grantaire mouths and dives over two guys into the living room. Enjolras picks his way over a girl hugging a plant pot, a man wearing nothing but silver boots, and a split beanbag, to peer in.

Grantaire is cautiously rigging up a delicate construction containing a plastic cup full of an anonymous sticky brown liquid, right over Lewis’s head. Enjolras can identify some straws and a pair of stockings in the makeshift crane but not much else. The cup bobs ominously.

Carefully, tongue between his teeth, Grantaire fishes a pen from his pocket and writes _I am a cunt_ on one of Lewis’s cheeks and _I touch people without consent_ on the other. They let the front door slam behind them.

They wander down dusty streets until Grantaire finds a bus stop and leans against it yawning. It’s very early. The next bus is in half an hour. Enjolras curls up on the sandy ground. He feels concussed.

“I’m never forgiving you,” he tells Grantaire half-heartedly as they part on the fourth floor landing, each to fall into his respective bed and miss the other’s warmth.

 


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: the natural end. I'm going on, though. I promise.

 

Enjolras groans and throws his arm over his face in an attempt to block out consciousness.

“Will you really never forgive me?” Grantaire enquires from somewhere above him.

“Fuck!” Enjolras jumps out of his skin and peels his eyes open, glaring. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

“Asking you if you’ll really never forgive me,” Grantaire repeats conversationally. He’s perched on the desk, a roll-up in the hand propped on his knee. Spirals of blue smoke rise out of the skylight into the still afternoon.

“For fuck’s sake,” Enjolras thumps back into the pillows.

“I’ve been a bad influence on you,” Grantaire muses and picks a shred of tobacco off his tongue.

“Will you get out? Jesus.”

“I know you love me really,” the older boy blows a smoke ring.

Enjolras sits up and snatches up a cushion.

“One more word,” he threatens. Grantaire puts his hands up in surrender, grinning around his cigarette. Enjolras allows himself one more warning glare and buries himself in his bedclothes again. He doesn’t hear Grantaire leave.

He wakes up slowly later, soft evening light glancing off his headboard. There’s a quiet knock on the door.

“Yeah,” he mumbles into his pillow.

Grantaire comes in and sets a paper bag on the desk.

“Up you get, sunshine,” he says. “Dinnertime.”

Enjolras is suddenly, ravenously hungry. He sits up quickly.

“Nice to know that’s all it takes to get you moving,” Grantaire says dryly and fumbles for a cigarette.

“Stop that,” Enjolras says, investigating the paper bag. It contains chicken wraps and skinny fries, two cheeseburgers and, for some reason, an apple pie.

“But I want one,” Grantaire whines.

“Smoking too much is not romantic or fun or interesting,” Enjolras says sternly around a mouthful of wrap. “It fucks up your lungs and makes you smell.”

“You think I smell?”

“I know you smell,” Enjolras applies himself to his food and pretends not to see Grantaire’s wounded expression. But he doesn’t light a cigarette, so Enjolras counts it a victory.

“Hot waitress sends her regards,” Grantaire says, filching a handful of fries. Enjolras chooses to ignore him.

“Seriously, dude, she thinks you’re the prettiest boy she’s ever seen,” Grantaire smirks. “I had to tell her you weren’t my girlfriend.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says through some cheeseburger.

“Well, you are the prettiest boy ever,” Grantaire says. Enjolras looks up and they watch each other for a moment, lashes flicking guardedly, shielding narrow brown or smalt-blue eyes. Then Enjolras breaks the contact and reaches for the last of his fries.

“You want to come into town tomorrow?” Grantaire asks. “I’m going with Anya but we can sneak off.”

Enjolras shrugs, mouth full of wrap.

“Such enthusiasm,” Grantaire says sarcastically. “I’ll wake you up in the morning.”

He hops down from the windowsill and leaves. Enjolras looks at the apple pie.

He’s lying on his bed ploughing through Chapter Twenty when the row starts. At first he doesn’t pay much attention to it. Then he hears his name mentioned.

Warily, he gets up and goes to the door. It’s not much clearer on the landing, but he thinks it’s Anya and Grantaire.

_-how dare you involve that boy in your sordid addictions –_ filters up shrilly through the floors. Enjolras winces and starts downstairs. He’s not eavesdropping, he tells himself. He’s making sure his friend is okay.

Anya and Grantaire stand face to face in the lobby, yelling at the top of their voices.

“- I don’t know what everyone must think, cigarette butts everywhere and coming and going at all hours-”

“Who gives a fuck what people think? You don’t give a fuck about me, you never have, I want to go home, I want Steve, I want-”

“I don’t care what you want! You’re a spoilt brat and I don’t know why I put up with you! I wish you’d never come here, all you’ve done is make my life difficult and screw things up! You screwed up your exams and you can’t get a job, you’re useless and lazy and if you don’t pull yourself together _you’ll never get anywhere!_ ”

Anya screams at such a pitch, the ensuing silence is louder than the actual words. Enjolras stops, frozen, one foot hovering above a step, watching pain and anger twist Grantaire’s bloodless face.

“If – if that’s what you think,” he says through his teeth, “perhaps I should just-”

But he doesn’t finish his sentence. He turns and bolts through the patron’s lounge and into the garden.

“Just run away then, you run away from everything else!” Anya shouts after him, but when she turns Enjolras sees tears spilling over her cheeks. She sits heavily in the seat behind the desk and sobs into her hands. He’s already running past her because the thought of Grantaire’s pain is unendurable to him.

The garden is cool and quiet in the twilight. Some of the evening plants are putting forth a sweet scent and the rising moon glimmers in the calm sea. Enjolras tiptoes through the blue dusk.

“Grantaire?” he whispers. There’s nothing, not even the telltale wisp of cigarette smoke. Then he sees the thin silhouette in the tricksy light, against the white line of the moon on the sea. His heart nearly stops.

Grantaire is on the very edge of the cliff.

“Grantaire,” he says. He climbs over the fence and tries not to think about crumbling sediments and the thousands of years of soft unsteady strata he’s standing on. He sways and has to put one hand on the fence post. “What – what are you doing?”

“Go away,” Grantaire murmurs. “You don’t like it here.”

“You’re on the edge,” Enjolras says dumbly and Grantaire’s eyes flash over his shoulder, black in the moonlight.

“Yes,” he says simply and returns his gaze to the sea below.

Enjolras feels sick. He can feel the earth turning under his feet. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Why are you on the edge?” he asks.

Grantaire laughs bitterly.

“Taking in the view,” he chokes. “Go away, you’re distracting me.”

“I don’t want to go away,” Enjolras disagrees. He chances taking his hand off the post. The earth spins abominably before it settles.

“I don’t want you here,” Grantaire spits.

“That’s a lie,” Enjolras tries a step, keeping his eyes on Grantaire’s head. “You’re not going to drive me away.”

“Please,” Grantaire sounds like he might be crying now. “I’m not – I can’t – just go away, Enjolras, please.”

“No,” Enjolras says. He’s very close now, but he hesitates. “Please don’t jump off the cliff, Grantaire.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Grantaire spins around. Enjolras winces and bites down on a moan as small, sandy pieces of cliff-top flake off beneath his friend’s bare feet.

“Because – I’m your friend,” Enjolras says as steadily as he can. “And I would be very sad to lose you, because – because you’re the most frustrating and rude and annoying person I’ve ever met, but – I like it.”

Grantaire just stares at him.

“And – and of course you’re forgiven, for dragging me out of my comfort zone, for introducing me to new things, of course you are,” Enjolras goes on. He doesn’t want to stop talking, doesn’t want to break this spell. “I would forgive you anything.”

He swallows, throat tight, and reaches out with an open palm.

Grantaire sighs. He scrubs his hand over his face. Enjolras feels cold sweat break out on his forehead as the horizon tilts but he refuses to move.

“Please,” Enjolras whispers again.

Grantaire steps away from the edge and takes his hand. He bends slightly and winds his arms around Enjolras’s waist.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be sorry,” Enjolras says. “Just get me away from the fucking edge.”

Grantaire laughs wetly and pulls back, swiping his fingers under his eyes.

“Come on, sunshine,” he says. “Let’s get back to reality.”

 

The next day Grantaire is gone, on a sun-drenched train north.

Enjolras wakes up and traipses downstairs, yawning. No one’s around. When he goes back up to his room, he finds the note slid under the door.

_Enjolras,_ it says in crooked lettering. Even Grantaire’s handwriting looks drunk.

_Sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. You sleep too late. Anya says it didn’t work out like she hoped, so I’m posted back to Steve like a wayward parcel. Never get adopted, kid. Actually if you get a choice just don’t get born._

_Anyway, cheers for last night. I owe you one._

_Don’t be a stranger, okay?_

_R – xxx_

There’s an eleven-digit phone number scrawled under it.

Enjolras stares blankly at his wall. He feels anticlimactic but also, looking back, like it couldn’t have gone any other way.

Anya looks surprised to see him in the lobby with his bags.

“Going somewhere?” she asks. Enjolras glances up from War and Peace.

“Home,” he says.

“Oh. I’ll tell your uncle you said goodbye, then?” she says. Enjolras nods.

“Thank you,” he says, “that would be very nice of you.”

He’s still smiling when he gets into the taxi and pays the driver with money stolen from the cash register. He smiles all the way home. He smiles through the row with his parents. He smiles until he falls onto the musty-smelling bed in his too-large bedroom and then, only then, he allows himself to scream.

 


End file.
